


the only thing that's right

by alasse



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Post-Canon, post-513
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasse/pseuds/alasse
Summary: It’s been three years since Justin left for New York, and he and Brian have been trying to stay together, but “something has been breaking, in the spaces between their words. In their awkward silences; in what’s left unsaid.” Can they bridge the gap between them before it's too late?





	1. Part 1 - Despedida

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Snow Patrol. Originally posted on LJ in 2008 [here](https://alasse.livejournal.com/36733.html).

“So, it’s gonna be a good show, I think,” Justin says, the phone cradled in his neck while he rifles through the refrigerator for something more promising to eat than three-day old Chinese. 

_“Great. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to fly up in time.”_

“Yeah, hope you manage to this time.” Justin doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but the simple statement is twisted into a pointing finger by some traitorous catch in his voice.

 _“Yeah.”_ Brian’s whisper is sad and accepting, and it kind of pisses Justin off. He wants more than monosyllabic words. Before he can even think of something to say, Brian’s already tying up the phone call. _“So, see you soon."_

“Yep. La – Bye, Brian.” Justin hits disconnect, stares at the phone in his hand while cold fridge air surrounds him. He swallows, and closes the metal door without taking anything out.

Something has been breaking, in the spaces between their words. In their awkward silences; in what’s left unsaid.

Part of him wants to stay up and analyze their stilted conversation, part of him wants to stop and think of every single syllable and tone. But another part of him reminds him he doesn’t have the luxury to act like some stupid love struck teenager; he has to wake up at fucking five in the morning the next day and take care of every detail of his upcoming show. Justin’s always been good at shutting out what he doesn’t want to think about, so he pushes Brian and their fucked up relationship away from his mind before heading to his room and to his cold bed. 

+

Justin wakes up when his alarm sounds, five o’ clock on the dot. He resists the urge to smash the damned thing against the wall; he really can’t keep on wasting money on replacing alarm clocks. With a resigned sigh, he hauls himself out of bed and heads into the shower. 

The warm water hitting his body makes his alertness grow by the second, and, eventually, he remembers last night. The phone conversation with Brian. He’s not sure when it started, when phone-calls became stilted and perfunctory, when visits became painful reminders of things he no longer has. Justin’s been in New York City for three years. He can’t really say whether it’s a good or a bad thing, whether he’s been happy or not. He’s been far too busy and far too determined to let himself stop and think about happiness, and promises, and soft-warm words like ‘home’ and ‘always’ and ‘only time’. There’s no room for softness in New York, especially not for an aspiring artist. 

He dresses quickly once he’s out of the shower, and he’s out the door before his roommate, Isabella, even thinks of getting up. Justin has way too much to do this morning, and with that in mind, he resolves to stop thinking about last night, about Brian and distance.

“Justin, darling, you’re late!” Anna, his agent, exclaims the moment he gets to the gallery. “You need to start setting everything up, the other artists are here already.” Justin met her by chance, on one of his many, many visits to galleries with slides and portfolios. She saw his work, and he liked her because she was the first person in New York that seemed to understand Justin’s paintings. During a lunch meeting the following day, Anna told him he had true potential, told him he could be big – if he was willing to pay the sacrifice. Of course, back then, Justin thought sacrifice meant dressing up and making nice with art patrons, maybe hanging around the city for two years or so. 

He knows better now. Sacrifice means letting everything go, absolutely everything you ever wanted or loved, and only keeping your art. 

Anna’s still talking; talking on the phone, to the gallery owner, to Justin, making frantic hand gestures. Justin simply nods and heads toward the direction she’s pointing, where he can see three other people congregated, busy directing the arrangement of their pieces. 

He’s very fucking lucky to be in this show. Rand’s is a small gallery, but it’s occasionally frequented by influential people, and their New Artists exhibition always sells. Justin has six pieces; three of them he did when he first arrived in New York, paintings he never really wanted to show or sell, which is why he never offered them to the galleries where he’s had one or two paintings up. They’re big, fucking huge canvases he only managed to do by basically squatting in an empty warehouse near his apartment building. He got caught, eventually, which is why the other three pieces are much smaller, and, if he’s brutally honest with himself, not as good, nowhere near as powerful. 

“Hey, man, how’re you doing? I’m Dan,” one of the other artists approaches him, giving him a small smile. He’s shorter than Justin, has slightly greasy black hair, a goatee. Justin feels slightly repelled by him, wondering why until he makes the connection – the guy reminds him of Ethan. 

Justin realizes there’s no need to treat Dan impolitely, it’s unlikely he’s an idiotic violin player besides being an artist, so he gives him a perfunctory smile back, shaking his hand. “Hi, I’m Justin.”

“So, these six yours?” Dan asks, pointing to the wall where Justin’s work is reclined, awaiting his directions in order to be hung. 

“Yep. You did the sculptures, right?” Justin inquires, glancing to the center of the gallery where he thinks Anna told him Dan Smith’s work would be. 

“I did, indeed,” Dan smiles again, stepping a bit closer, and Justin realizes this is Dan’s clumsy attempt at hitting on him.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, but steps back. “So, listen, I really need to get started on this, we’ll talk later, okay?”

Dan’s smile slips, but he acquiesces with a soft, “Sure, sure.”

Justin turns to his paintings, his mind already miles away, picturing exactly how they need to be set up.

+

Hours later, Justin’s finally done. He thanks the gallery owner, tells him he’ll see him at the opening the following night, and escapes before Dan can approach him again. He walks slowly toward the cafe he’s meeting his friends in, even though he’s already late. The late afternoon is bleeding into the early evening, and a welcome breeze gives all the pedestrians a respite from the summer sun.

Justin stares up at the sky above him. He sees the straight clouded trail a jet plane has left, cutting the blue heavens with white as precisely as a scalpel cuts a red line on fragile skin. After a while, the trail looses its resolution and clarity, the cloudy line drifts apart and fades. It scares him to realize his life in New York is a bit like that. When he first got here, he had a clear path and goal; he knew what he had to do in order to achieve what he wanted, and when success had been reached, he was going back home. But things got blurry, along the way. His path drifted apart like vapor, his goals became at once easier and harder to reach. Now, he’s not sure in which direction to walk. 

“Justin!” 

Justin looks down to see Dave and Isabella waving at him from one of the tables outside the cafe.

“Hey, guys,” he greets them with a smile, sitting down on the empty chair by the table.

“So, how did it go?” Isabella asks eagerly. She was a friend of Daphne’s first, Justin’s only acquaintance when he first arrived to New York. He was only supposed to crash at her place for a while, but they both really liked each other, and decided to give the permanent rooming thing a try. It’s worked out pretty well so far, Isabella’s a secretary and erstwhile actress, and she reminds Justin of Daphne, the way she never judges, only listens and comes up with wacky plans.

“I hope it went well enough that it makes you looking like crap worth it,” Dave interjects, pointedly looking Justin up and down. 

“Dave!” Isabella digs an elbow into Dave’s side.

Dave makes a show of rubbing his torso, but he’s unrepentant. “What? He does look like hell.” He looks at Justin with mock earnestness. “You do look like hell.”

Justin snorts. Dave is rarely anything but truthful. He’s a writer, and his argument is that he embellishes the truth too much while writing, so he has to be honest when he speaks.

“I know, I know,” Justin finally replies. “I went to bed late last night, woke up really early. And in between getting all the pieces set up, and avoiding this guy who-”

“Was hitting on you, but had the wrong hair or eyes or smile or body, so you had to get away,” Isabella interrupts, rolling her eyes at Justin’s predictability.

“He was greasy!” Justin defends himself. “And he was really bad at hitting on people, too.”

Dave laughs, but the sound is almost pained. “Ah, the impossibility of a guy ever meeting Justin Taylor’s standards. I swear I’m going to write a short story about it.”

Justin’s saved from coming up with a reply by the arrival of the waitress, who takes his order. After she leaves, their conversation turns to trivial things, from the guy Isabella wants to take to the gallery opening, to whether Dave should write a limerick to celebrate the occasion.

It’s always a bit awkward, when Dave’s crush on Justin becomes more apparent than usual. Justin doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to go out with Dave – the guy is intelligent, kind, he has piercing blue eyes, crazy, curly black hair, and he’s an incredibly talented writer, Justin knows he’s bound to be a published household name soon. But Justin just doesn’t feel anything for him beyond friendship. Dave understands, but he slips, sometimes. 

“So, hey, my friend Austin was wondering if you wanted to go out with him?” Isabella asks, interrupting Justin’s trip down memory lane.

Justin makes a face. “Austin as in wannabe the next Bob Fosse Austin?”

David snorts, as if he already knows Austin is one more tally to the list of ‘Shot down by Justin Taylor’, but Isabella doesn’t give up. “I know he’s a bit – um, enthusiastic, but he really likes you, Jus, he says you’re, like, the perfect guy for him.”

Justin takes a sip from his double espresso before answering. “Izzie, first of all? He’s not “enthusiastic”, he’s one step away from being a diagnosed maniac, and second, I’m no one’s perfect guy.”

Justin hates that, how people view him, occasionally. Potential tricks, potential agents, potential buyers. At first, they see a young blond man, hot ass, nice smile. They’re pleasantly surprised when they find the hot blond is not just a pretty face, but happens to have a sharp mind, sharper wit, and talent to match. Justin still can’t help but be annoyed that they act surprised about it. 

For guys he meets, he means plenty of ticks on the list of ‘Mr. Right’. He did that, once, when he was fourteen. Wrote a list of requirements for ‘Mr. Right’, and he flushed it down the toilet almost immediately, worried that his father might find it, and embarrassed that he was acting so much like Daphne. He still remembers a few of the things he wrote, normal things like ‘handsome’, ‘intelligent’, ‘caring’; silly things like ‘drives a red Jaguar’, ‘owns a life supply of Mrs. Fields chocolate cookies’ – Justin went through a cookie phase. He remembers this list with fondness, and a bit of exasperation. He knows now it’s the unlisted that catches you off-guard; it’s the unlisted that turns out to be everything. Both he and Brian know that well; neither of them planned for the other. 

Yes, Justin seems so fucking perfect on the surface, and it pisses him off sometimes. Because like everyone else in this fucking fucked-up world, he’s not perfect. 

“What about Brian’s?” Dave asks softly.

Justin closes his eyes, swallows. Isabella and Dave know about Brian, they met him, once. Isabella said he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and Dave stopped trying to conquer Justin after that. But they don’t know everything. They couldn’t, nobody but Brian and Justin know everything, and, sometimes, even both of them have no clue.

“I’ve never been the perfect guy for Brian. I was always the one who broke all his rules,” Justin finally replies.

Dave frowns, and Isabella pushes her chocolate cake towards him. Justin tries to smile, but he can’t help feeling the ghosts of everything he was, everything he left behind, choking him. It happens whenever he remembers Brian, or Daphne, or his Mom. Whenever he remembers Pittsburgh. He loved the fact that he had a clean slate when he first got to New York City. But now, now he feels the weight of having to explain himself, when his hand shakes, when he flinches at seeing a red stain on white material, when he’s a moody asshole.

He craves being known. Because he’s so monumentally fucked up below his calm surface, so full of cracks and flaws and irrational fears. So full of selfishness, of this strange darkness he somehow senses, lurking at the edges of his subconscious. He craves that feeling he had, of being loved, not despite all these stains on the sun, but along with them. No questions, no pedestals. 

“Hey, you don’t get to brood today, Jus. It’s your big day tomorrow, and we’re going to fucking celebrate, okay?” Isabella tells him, nudging him.

“Yeah, dude, I already bought the beer and tortilla chips,” Dave adds.

Justin shakes his head and laughs. They may never really know all his secrets, but they love him anyway. And he loves them.

“Okay, okay. Where is this night of debauchery taking place?”

Dave looks at him like he’s crazy. “Well, duh! Thought you were a genius, paint boy. At yours and Izzie’s, it’s not like I can have a party at my great aunt’s place.”

+

Isabella’s asleep in her room, Dave took over Justin’s bed. The rest of their friends are long gone, and it’s really fucking late, or really fucking early, depending on how you look at it. Justin hasn’t slept, even though he’s invaded by a bone-deep fatigue he can’t shake.

He rests his forehead against the window, sighs. He sees the sky lighten, knows that somewhere behind the grey buildings and the steel and concrete, the sun has risen. But there are no sunrises to be seen, not for him, not in this apartment or this city. Sunrises are whimsical, romantic things, cliché symbolisms for new beginnings and new lives, and all sorts of bright things. Justin doesn’t feel shiny or new, and all the brightening light does is bring the broken pieces of his life into sharp relief; he thinks he can see them, glistening in the cruelly weak sunshine. He thinks of sunrises in Brian’s loft – of pure, strong light flooding the room, making the wooden floor golden and Brian’s skin glow. He watched the sun rise with Brian more than once, on nights that had gone on to days, when nightmares or fucking or both kept them up. Somehow, Justin never thought of those sunrises as romantic, but rather, as one of the most natural things he’d ever known. 

The anticlimactic beginning of this new day makes him think of all the ones before it, three years of days and nights piling up into hopelessness. Justin always heard more than the words Brian spoke, understood so much from the set of Brian’s shoulders, the briefest clenching of his jaw, a shadow of feeling passing through his eyes. There were times in those five years that Justin forgot how to speak ‘Kinney’, when he heard violin music instead of paying attention to hands and kisses, or when Hollywood got in the way, but one way or another, with stalking or bombs, he always managed to remember. 

However, this distance… this distance. Justin’s always had a good imagination, but no amount of imagining can help him fill in the blanks between Brian’s grunts and monosyllabic words. New York has worn him out, and he’s just too tired – he needs easy, and the only thing that was ever easy between them requires a lot less miles between them, and no clothes. The phone calls, such as they’ve been, haven’t cut it, and every visit has only been one more way to bring the dulling pain to sharp relief. There’s never been enough time to put things completely back together, but what time they got was enough to make Justin feel the separation tearing him open again. He can’t do this anymore. He won’t. 

+

“Your pieces look amazing, Jus,” Isabella tells him, hugging him long and hard.

Justin hugs back harder, because he needs to distract himself from the disappointment. Brian isn’t here. Brian didn’t arrive.

“He could still make it,” Isabella whispers.

Justin leans back from the embrace, says nothing. Brian could still make it, yes. But it wouldn’t matter, because he still missed the opening, the speech, the presentation of Justin and Justin’s work. 

Dave approaches the two of them cautiously, as if he’s afraid Justin might explode. Justin wonders exactly how he looks that Dave of all people feels scared.

“So, ye great artiste. From the look of those red stamps, I’d say this night is an undisputed success,” Dave says overenthusiastically, putting an arm around his shoulder, gesturing at the stamps that indicate all of Justin’s work has been sold.

A success. Yes, a success it was. His agent is over the moon, the gallery manager is already talking about another show, just him and Dan Smith, the hits tonight. Justin should be fucking ecstatic, this is one of the milestones of his career, of his life. Yet all he feels, all he feels is disappointment, and absence, and resignation. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Justin doesn’t pick up.

+++

_“Yep. La – Bye, Brian.”_

Brian closes his eyes, listens to the beeping sound of a disconnected call. If he were the type of guy to think in shitty metaphors, he’d say that’s exactly how he feels, that’s the soundtrack to his life these days. Disconnected.

He knows Justin needs more words, he knows whatever they are is a second away from imploding. But it’s been three years, three years of listening and seeing and imagining Justin growing up and growing apart, and words can do nothing against the inevitability of time. 

It’s not just him. Five years, and Brian and Justin never really learned how to talk with actual words. Their conversations always loaded with penetrating glances, with certain touches, with sex. With simple and absolute knowing. A knowing that’s been lost in the miles between them.

+

Brian’s days have always been a routine. Since he was a kid, when it was “wake up, avoid Jack, go to school, soccer practice, go to the Novotny’s, avoid Jack and repeat all over again”. In his twenties, any step in the routine was interrupted by “fuck”. For five years, more of his routine than he ever cared to admit revolved around Justin. 

These days, Brian’s routine would make a younger Brian laugh his ass off, or kill himself. Brian wakes up, goes to work and has lunch with Theodore, talks to Gus on his webcam and, sometimes, has dinner with Michael and the Professor, or even Jennifer and Molly. He might catch a beer or two with Emmett and Ted at Woody’s, go to Babylon to check up on the manager more than to check out the action. He tricks, of course, but considering he redefined the meaning of promiscuity, he’s almost celibate now. 

He’d like to say why, he’d love to have a proper reason, so he could kick the reason’s ass and go back to being who he was, so he could stop feeling so out of sorts and out of depth. Lindsay and Debbie would say it’s love, Zen Ben and Mikey would say it’s growing up. Brian says it’s fucking bullshit, is what it is, because Justin took away his goddamned armor, through stalking and stubbornness and killing him with kindness and truth, and now Brian can’t go back. Justin stripped him bare and left. So Brian has to learn how to do this, how to be this, because it turns out he can’t be what he used to be anymore. He tried; he failed.

“Hey, Bri,” Theodore greets him cheerfully, while simultaneously handing him a triple shot latte from the Starbucks in the corner. He knows how to deal with the lion now.

“Morning, Theodore. How’s the empire?” Brian walks to his office quickly, listening with undeniable pride as Ted relates the happenings of Kinnetik, Babylon and a few other investments Brian has done in the past three years, mostly in Liberty Avenue. 

“So, as you can tell, the empire is doing more than fine. You can go to New York in a few hours, don’t worry about a thing,” Ted finishes with a smile, and grabs one of Brian’s green apples.

Brian raises an eyebrow. Ted flushes, and wordlessly offers him a bite. Brian rolls his eyes and waves him off.

Their apple stand-off is interrupted by the sound of fast clicking heels and Cynthia’s appearance. “Brian, we have a problem. A really big problem,” she says seriously.

Brian waits for her to continue, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut.

“The actress we hired for EyeConic Optics? She just got caught doing coke with her brother.”

“Well, it’s nice to know she’s a family girl,” Brian grimaces.

“Her brother’s fourteen, Brian,” Cynthia hands him the news she printed out. 

Brian reads quickly, and when he’s finished, he looks up to meet Ted and Cynthia’s eyes. “We need to move quickly. Very fucking quickly. Get the lawyer, get the art department, and get Simmons, he’s working on this account.”

Cynthia nods and leaves immediately. Ted pauses before following her. “Bri, what about New York?”

Brian looks down. “I’ll catch a later flight. I’ll make it.” When he’s alone in his office, he stares at the piece of paper once more, stares at the photograph of the tweaked out actress and her little brother. He rips it to shreds, and hopes against hope he can take care of this mess quickly.

+

Brian knows he fucked up. He knows it doesn’t matter he’s finally here, finally seeing Justin’s work. It doesn’t matter he called the gallery a week ago and one of the largest canvases is his, doesn’t matter he has an excuse. Justin never picked up last night, when Brian called him time and time again from Kinnetik. 

Brian’s one day late to New York City, one fucking day. And one fucking day is going to be the undoing of everything.

He leaves the gallery and walks to Justin’s apartment, feels the city seep into his pores. He allows himself a moment of nostalgia, to think that this city could’ve been his. But it isn’t, it’s Justin’s, because Brian stayed in Pittsburgh, first because he lost a job, and then because he decided to. He doesn’t tell himself it was a good choice, that it was worth it, he doesn’t give himself bullshit assurances. It is what it is.

When he arrives to Justin’s building, he takes a second to gather himself, he needs to be ready to take whatever’s coming. Someone’s coming out, and Brian goes inside before the door closes. He walks up the four flights of stairs, and stops before Justin’s door. 

Time to face the music. He rings the doorbell.

Justin opens the door, and in a split second, Brian can tell he’s tired, pissed off and hungry. A very bad combination where Mr. Taylor’s concerned. 

“Brian. What’re you doing here?”

“I said I was coming, didn’t I?” Brian says with a raised eyebrow.

Justin’s clearly unimpressed. He simply walks back into the apartment. Brian follows him, closes the door behind him.

The silence is a living, breathing thing between them; Brian feels it taking over the apartment, choking him with unspoken accusations, with the noxious fume of disappointment. 

“Justin…” 

Justin turns around, face hard. “What. What happened this time?”

“Kinnetik. The actress in one of our campaigns got caught giving coke to her fourteen year old brother.” It’s a legitimate excuse; it’s true, it’s reasonable. But they’re past reasonable excuses, they’re past them because they’re both too fucking tired.

“And Kinnetik always comes first, doesn’t it? It’s Brian Kinney’s empire, it’s his pride and joy – he can’t let it look bad, not for a second. Not for a day. Not for my show.” Justin’s words are filled with anger, his face is flushed and his body rigid, but his eyes are asking something of Brian. Brian can see how desperately Justin is asking, begging, even if he doesn’t realize it himself. Justin’s asking Brian to act like an asshole, to act like he always does. 

So Brian complies. Does this for Justin, and for himself. 

“You know what? Fuck. This. Shit.” Every word enunciated carefully, eyebrows raised and mouth twisted with contempt. “I don’t need this, Justin. I’m fucking done with this.”

There’s no more desperate pleading in Justin’s eyes. Now, they’re narrowed in anger, but if he looks closely, and Brian always looks closely, he can see the strange and hopeless relief. They’re in familiar territory now, Justin knows what’s coming, he knows how to act. Brian needs to take this to the next level. He turns, takes out a cigarette. After it’s lit, he grabs his jacket and heads to the door. 

“Yes, go on. Leave. Fucking leave, to fuck some stranger in a club. Leave to get wasted and tweaked, leave because you don’t ever know how to fucking stay, Brian.” Justin’s voice is vitriolic, and it fucking hurts. But, yet again, Brian doesn’t miss the underlying note of almost despair. He doesn’t look back, he can’t. He does leave. He walks out of Justin’s apartment; out of his building; out of his life. 

Out of his life, because Brian now understands it hurts them both too much to hold on. It hurts even worse to let go, but he has to. Justin’s eyes begged him to. To please act the part of the asshole Brian’s forgetting how to be, so Justin could have his righteous anger and his clean break. So they’d stop tearing themselves open with every “Hello” followed by a far too quick “Good bye”. So the awkward silences and the empty spaces would cease. 

They’d tried to hold on while worlds apart. But it turns out it wasn’t just about time, but about distance and friends and openings and accounts. About broken promises, visits not made. They _are_ worlds apart, and, right now, the separation is quite simply too much to breach. 

+

The moment Brian walks into the loft, he heads quickly to his bedroom, to his bedside table. He opens the drawer forcefully, and takes out the little velvet black box. The little box that has been there for three years, waiting, like him. _It’s only time_. His hands are shaking, and the box seems to shiver if only because his entire being is. After a deep breath, he opens it, and the two platinum rings shine dully, reflecting the streetlight coming in through the windows. Brian refuses to give in to his first impulse: to take them out, to run fingers around the smaller one. He closes the box and moves to the kitchen; he stops in front of the trash can, hand poised above it.

Do it.

Throw them away.

Throw him away.

Brian closes his eyes, breathes. He can’t. He shakes his head with defeat, with weary acceptance. He couldn’t do it eight years ago, couldn’t say no to the shining boy dancing between two mere mortals. He can’t do it now. Even if the boy is gone, even if he’s never coming back, Brian can’t ever throw him away. 

The little twat made sure of it.


	2. Part 2 - Pienso En Ti

Justin feels as if he’s stuck in a rut, trapped. Everything around him is grey, everything muted and far away. Nothing touches him, and he touches nothing. He’s numb, he’s so numb he’s not even screaming inside. There’s simply nothing. _Nothing_.

Isabella tries to cheer him up, offers up Haagen-Dazs Chocolate Chocolate Chip ice-cream, booze, The Yellow Submarine, weed, pastries from the best deli on the block… Nothing works. He’s not depressed, he’s not mourning, he’s not angry. He can’t even say what he is; he can only say what he’s not. There’s something terribly wrong in having to catalogue himself in negatives. 

“Jus, I don’t get it… you said it’d been a long time coming, that it was inevitable. Why – what’s wrong?” Izzie tries to puzzle him out, tries to garner a response. 

Justin doesn’t answer, because he can’t. He’d love to know why, and what, and for how long. How long until this passes. But he has no fucking clue. He can’t paint, and Anna is a second away from killing him, because he has nothing to show Rand’s. Whatever drive, whatever fuel got him through the past three years is simply gone. Gone, along with a man with hazel eyes and soft brown hair, and a beauty that sinks the world in chaos and puts it in perfect focus at the same time. 

+

_”Justin? This is Anna. Call me, honey, please. Rand’s is really interested in another show, but they need to see some work. They want something like the three big pieces you submitted for the New Artists Show.”_

+

_”Justin, Anna again. We need to show something to Rand’s soon, or you won’t get a second show. Whatever you’re going through, you need to get over it. Don’t sacrifice your career. Call me back.”_

+

Sacrifice. That word again. “Don’t sacrifice your career.” Just everything else? Justin has, already. The problem with sacrificing everything for his art is that he no longer has anything left to make the art happen – his inspiration, his demons, his passion, after so much sacrifice, they’ve all become numb. Rand’s wants pieces like the three large canvases Justin did, and Justin doesn’t think he can deliver. Because those three paintings, he did them right after arriving to New York, when there was so much drive and determination in him, and so much pain and love.

The fight with Brian, the break… it’s come to show Justin just how void of feeling his life has been lately. When did it happen? When did he lose sight of everything he wanted to achieve in this city, when did he lose himself? When did it become easier to survive than to live?

+

Two weeks into his funk, Dave apparently decides thinly veiled hints and sympathetic ears, coffee and ice-cream runs won’t cut it. He walks into Justin’s apartment, furious and determined.

“That’s it, Justin. You’re done. You’re going to stop this, right now. Today.” 

He forces Justin into the shower, and Justin can’t even muster himself to feel embarrassed or self-conscious of the fact that the friend who has a huge crush on him is seeing him naked. Dave just tells him he reeks of cigarette smoke, and gives him a small “smoking is bad for your health” speech. After he’s done, he puts on the clothes Dave throws at his face, and follows him into the living room. 

“Right.” Dave sits on the table, facing Justin. His gaze is penetrating and unforgiving, and Justin knows he won’t get away with non-committal words and shrugs this time. “I’m assuming this pathetic display of angst is a consequence of the day after your show.”

Justin nods.

“When you broke up with Brian. Or, excuse me, decided to terminate your non-defined, non-conventional whateverthefuck.”

Justin nods again. 

Dave huffs out an exasperated breath. He looks away for a moment, frowning as if he’s trying to work something out. He runs a hand through his messy hair. “Why does he get to you like this? Why do you love him so fucking much, Justin? Yes, he’s gorgeous, he’s intelligent, he’s loaded. But there are plenty more guys like that. What the fuck is it about Brian Kinney?”

Justin glances down to stare at his hands, resting in his lap. He opens and closes his right hand slowly, and he can feel Brian’s hands, massaging the pain away. He runs the same hand through his hair, and feels Brian clutching the long strands, remembers Brian caressing a buzz cut, both gestures heavy with meaning. The computer Brian bought him is visible peripherally, and with it comes the memory of frustration, and a prostrate figure peeling an apple, and Carnivale posters and political protest posters. He shuts his eyes for a moment, and he’s leaning back against a lamp post, watching his future walk towards him.

Justin finally meets Dave’s eyes again. It’s about time he was honest, about time he actually tells Dave what Brian really means. “There’s not a single transcendent moment in my life that doesn’t involve Brian, one way or another. He’s what holds me back and pushes me forward. He’s the beginning. And I can’t imagine him not being the end.” 

Dave swallows, clearly shocked. Justin can’t blame him, considering he usually shied away from sharing more than necessary about his past and his life in Pittsburgh. 

“So – what happened?” Dave frowns, and then shakes his head in confusion. “Why the hell did you let him go?”

Justin bites his lip. “I… I think we were both tired.” Dave’s eyebrows rise, and Justin elaborates, “We had a bad run, lately. Lots of stress for Brian at work, I was freaking out over my show… and for one reason or another, we kept having to miss visits and calls, and it was just – it was just as if everything was disintegrating, and we were too exhausted to keep it together.”

“How long has it been since you spent time with him?”

“Um, two weeks, Dave, remember?” Justin says dryly. 

“No, no. I don’t mean spent two minutes within 2 miles of each other, I mean, actually spent time together,” Dave explains. “Like, just hang out and talk and fuck and drink… not worrying about flights, or goodbyes, or responsibilities. Just the two of you.”

Justin’s stumped. He has to think for a second before replying, “I think two years. We went up to Canada to see Gus, and then spent a week at a ski resort.”

Dave waves a hand emphatically in Justin’s direction, crying out, “See? Dude, no fucking wonder you two couldn’t hold it together! You haven’t _been_ together in two years. You can’t hold on to something if you’ve forgotten how having it feels.”

Justin’s quiet for a while, vaguely thinking that Dave makes one hell of a therapist, and realizing how right he is. He hasn’t been with Brian once for almost two years without worrying about itineraries and departure flights; neither of them could ever really let go, give themselves fully, because they were already thinking about having to say goodbye. 

Fuck.

“So what the hell do I do now?” Justin asks.

“You go get him, tiger,” Isabella says from the doorway. Justin and Dave turn to see her, startled, and she smirks. “You need to go to Pittsburgh, Jus. Not just to be with Brian, but to find yourself. Find your inspiration again, your passion.”

Dave nods, smiling sadly. Justin realizes how hard this must be for him, pushing him into the arms of another man, and he feels humbled by how much Dave cares about him, how much Izzie does, too. New York’s brought a lot of heartache, but it’s also given him two great friends.

Justin stands up. “Okay. Okay. I’m going to Pittsburgh.”

+

Justin rings the doorbell and shifts from foot to foot, waiting anxiously for the door to open. When it does, he can’t even begin to say how happy he is to see the person behind it.

“Justin? What’re you doing here?

“I need your help, Daph.”

Daphne regards him seriously for a second, and then her lips quirk up into a smile. “Do we need to break out the frozen yoghurt?”

Justin cracks up, and walks inside. 

He throws himself onto Daphne’s couch, and being in this apartment feels welcome and familiar. He came here for shelter so many times, for advice, for relaxation. The quirky colors and posters, the many, many medical books, everything screams Daphne, and he suddenly feels like a very shitty friend. He hasn’t called Daphne in over two months.

Daphne sits next to him, handing him a bowl of peach frozen yoghurt. Justin would prefer a stiff drink, but he thinks maybe yoghurt is the healthier way to go. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t called, Daph, I -”

“Shut up, Justin,” Daphne interrupts. “It’s okay. From the few e-mails you sent, I kinda figured you weren’t doing so well.”

Justin snorts. “Understatement.” 

He begins to tell Daphne everything, about Brian, and his weird depression, his art, his lack of inspiration, his hopelessness. It feels so good to let everything out, to lay it on the table. Daphne just listens, and hears everything between the lines that he can’t bring himself to say. 

“So, here I am. But I don’t know how to make it right, I don’t even know if I should.”

Daphne narrows her eyes at him. “Justin. Don’t even. You know you have to make it right, and what’s more, you _want_ to. Because it’s Brian.”

It’s _Brian_. The man he loves, who he’ll always love, whatever happens. The guys, Michael, Emmett, Ted, and even Deb, they always reminisce about Justin’s seventeen year old “crush” on Brian, but they don’t get it. Justin didn’t just want Brian, for his body and his wit and his sexual prowess; he loved him, every bit of contradiction and complex strength and vulnerability he discovered with each passing day. Just as he loves him now. Not many people can love Brian Kinney, in the way Justin loves him. Like Semele, they’d be burnt to ashes by such a feeling, by truly loving such a man. 

Justin gives Daphne a small smile. “You’re right. So, what do I do? Stalk him again?”

Daphne takes his hand in hers, gives it a squeeze. “You know, I think it’s about time you actually talked.”

+

Daphne stops the car in front of Brian’s building. Six Fuller, corner of Tremont. She looks at Justin seriously for a second. “It’ll be okay, Jus. You’ll see.” Then, she gives him a wicked grin. “And you have to tell me all about the reunion sex later, okay? You totally owe me for the yoghurt.”

Justin pulls her into a fairly awkward hug. He draws strength and hope from her own hope in him, in them. “Right. Time to go up.”

He gets out of the car and walks slowly to the door of the building. He still has a key. The lift is creaky and loud, as always, and then, he’s finally there. In front of Brian’s door, outside of the loft. The place where so much has happened, where so much of everything in his life took place.

Justin opens the door, and there he is. Brian, working on something, typing away on his laptop, papers and spreads covering the table. 

Brian looks up, and time seems to stop as their eyes meet. Justin takes a deep breath and steps inside, sliding the door closed.

“Brian, we need to talk.”

+++

Brian takes a deep drink of Beam, straight from the bottle. He intends to get good and drunk tonight; he wants to forget his own name. They don’t expect him at the office tomorrow, after all, they think he’s still in New York. Celebrating with Justin.

He still hasn’t turned on the lights, he hasn’t unpacked, he hasn’t moved since he tried getting rid of the rings. It’s as if his brain shut down and he can’t think past the next second. He’s drunk enough he considers calling Michael, Ted, even Emmett. He’s sober enough to stop himself from doing something so fucking pathetic. 

Memories and ghosts crowd the darkness and the silence, and everything that was haunts him. Another drink, bitter and burning down his throat. He feels as if he’s in pieces, as if he’s made of shattered glass. 

“Stop,” he whispers. 

He barely recognizes his own voice, hoarse and strangled. He sits up, clutches the bottle tightly, almost painfully, and closes his eyes for a moment. He needs to get a hold of himself, needs to snap out of this. He has to pick up his pieces, and put himself back together, even if it’s painful, even if shards slip through and cut. He can only afford himself this one night to brood, and to ache. He opens his eyes, and faces the darkness.

Justin may be gone, and he may not come back, but Brian needs to go on. Because Brian Kinney always goes on.

+

“Bri?” Ted walks slowly into his office, looking worried.

Brian looks up from the contract he was revising. “Yes, Theodore?” He really hopes there isn’t another major fuck-up to deal with, the last thing he needs is to do damage control because it turns out the male model on the Poole campaign’s actually a girl.

“Bri – it’s ten o’ clock. What are you still doing here?”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Blow-drying my hair, Theodore, what do you think?”

Ted sighs and steps closer. “Brian, you have to stop working like this. For almost two weeks you’ve been coming in at seven in the morning, and you leave until ten or eleven at night. It’s Friday, why don’t you come get a drink with Emmett and me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“C’me on, Bri, you haven’t gone out with us in a while. We miss you,” Ted cajoles.

“Really? I would’ve thought my absence would be beneficial to your sex life; people are less likely to think you’re terrible looking if you’re not next to me. Oh, wait, you’re married,” Brian snaps his fingers. “Well, Emmett, then.”

Ted looks at him with odd fondness. “Well, we miss you ruining our sex lives; no one can do it quite like you.”

“I’m certainly unique.”

“Come on, just one drink,” Ted says, almost cooing, while getting Brian’s coat from the hanger by the door. 

Brian pinches the bridge of his nose. God, friends can be so annoying. “Alright, alright. One drink. But quit it with the fond looks and the cooing, you’re freaking me the fuck out.”

Ted snorts, and leads the way out.

+

It isn’t just one drink, because Emmett, the devious fucker, keeps magically refilling Brian’s whiskey tumbler. 

The three of them are half sprawled around their usual table at Woody’s, alcohol having made them quit playing pool a while back. 

“Theodore, why didn’t you invite your wife?” Brian asks. 

He thinks he may have asked the same question before, but whatever. He can’t be bothered to keep track of much aside from Emmett’s sparkly feathered boa, which is _really_ fucking sparkly, and Emmett keeps waving around to emphasize whatever he says.

“Blake’s not my wife, Bri. And, like I told you, he’s doing a shift at the clinic.”

“Aw, and don’t you miss ickle Blakie?”

Emmett snorts into his drink, and little pink drops of Cosmo fly out. 

“Emmett! You got friggin’ Cosmo on my Armani shirt!” Brian complains, unsuccessfully trying to wipe the droplets from his sleeve.

Ted’s quiet, apparently seriously considering Brian’s question. Brian sometimes forgets Ted doesn’t drink, and is thus likely to take drunken rambling seriously. “I do miss Blake, of course, ‘cause I love him. But it’s important in a relationship to give each other space, and Blake goes to group, I go out with you guys – it’s healthy.”

“Gee, Theodore, you’re so full of wisdom. Can I be like you when I grow up?”

“Me, too! Me, too! I wanna be like Teddy!” Emmett cries, waving his boa around, and accidentally hitting a guy in the eye. “Whoops! Sorry, honey, didn’t see you there.”

Ted looks at Brian intently. “Bri, I didn’t come up with that by myself. I learnt it from you, from you and Justin.”

Brian’s semi-good mood evaporates. Fuck. Justin. And Brian was having such a nice time in oblivion. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t take the lesson to heart. Justin and I are over,” Brian mutters darkly.

“What?” Emmett whirls around from apologizing to his boa victim. “How – when – sweetie, why didn’t you tell us?”

Brian raises an eyebrow. “’Cause I didn’t want to answer so many damn questions.” He glances at Ted, who seems unsurprised. “You knew?”

“Cynthia and I figured,” Ted shrugs. “You usually schedule your next trip to New York right after you come back, and you go easy on the Art Department for at least two days – we call it the ‘fucking Justin effect’. But this time, you threatened to fire them all three times before lunch, which was a record for you.”

“What happened?” Emmett asks softly, sounding a lot less drunk than he did a minute ago.

Brian stares into his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside absently. “I was one day late to his show. And it turned out time does matter, after all,” he adds in a whisper.

“Bri – I’m sorry,” Ted says quietly. 

Emmett nods and squeezes Brian’s shoulder briefly.

Brian hates the compassion in Ted and Emmett’s eyes; he really doesn’t want their soft comfort. But, at the same time, some treacherous part of him is so fucking grateful they’re here, and that they know him enough now to say nothing, to ask nothing, to just let him wear his mask for a little while longer.

He finishes the rest of his Beam in one go. “Yeah, well. No use thinking about it. You gotta go on, right?”

Emmett goes to get him a refill, and Ted starts talking about Michael and Ben’s latest debacle with Hunter, apparently forgetting it was Brian who told him about it in the first place. They help Brian wear his mask; they seem to understand he will break without it.

+

It’s Saturday, and Brian wakes up late, cursing Emmett and the magically refilling Beam. He stumbles to the kitchen, blessing automatic coffee makers, and pours half the sugar jar into the pot. After a few drinks, he feels slightly more human.

There’s a message on his machine from Michael, asking him for lunch or tea, or something boring as fuck, and while Brian might’ve been persuaded to go if it was just going to be Mr. and Mrs. Novotny-Bruckner and kid, Mikey’s annoying PC neighbors are also attending, and he can’t be bothered to deal with them today. 

He stays in. After running on the tread-mill and taking a shower, he puts on his oldest jeans and a black wifebeater, and decides to do some work on a few upcoming campaigns.

He’s busy writing the outline of the next Remson Pharmaceuticals campaign when the loft door opens, and Justin walks inside. Brian stares at him, certain he’s a hallucination, until the hallucination speaks.

“Brian, we need to talk.”

Brian’s nonplussed. First of all, what the fuck is Justin doing here, and, secondly, fucking talk? He really, really, _really_ doesn’t need Justin to yell at him again. Justin is coming closer to his desk, so Brian stands up, walks to the living room, trying to put some distance between them.

“What the fuck about, Justin? Why are you here?”

Justin, the stubborn little fuck, refuses to stay away, and walks to stand right in front of Brian. It’s almost too much – Brian can feel Justin’s warmth, and it makes him feel colder; he’s surrounded by Justin’s scent, and he clenches his hands to keep from reaching out.

“To talk. I need to tell you something,” Justin replies, regarding Brian seriously, his eyes riveted to Brian’s face. 

Brian refuses to look away, even though he desperately wants to. “So tell me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Brian’s taken aback. “Sorry?”

Justin nods, and he runs a hand through his hair before speaking again. “I’m sorry for everything I said last time, for how shitty I acted. It wasn’t fair to you, to us.”

Brian shrugs. “Yeah. Well, sorry’s-”

“ _Not_ bullshit, and you know it,” Justin interrupts. “I – I had this huge speech prepared, all these things I wanted to say, but…” he trails off, gaze dropping to the floor.

Brian can’t help himself. “But what?”

Justin looks at him again, and there’s so much in those blue eyes, such absolute determination, and love, and pain. “But all I can think of is that I miss you. I miss you too fucking much, Brian, and I can’t be without you.”

Brian’s the one that looks away this time. “Yes, you can. You can do anything,” he says.

“Yeah, well, I _won’t_. I don’t want to. I can do without New York, I can do without it. It’s not worth losing us over.”

Brian shakes his head. No, no, it’s all wrong. Justin’s dream is worth everything, fucking everything. “Anything is worth your career, your life. You have to see for yourself, Justin.”

Justin steps even closer. “Can’t you see that I am?” he asks, voice breaking. “I can’t even paint anymore, Brian, nothing comes. There is no real me without you. My life – fuck, my life isn’t my life without you.”

Brian closes his eyes. This is not how things were supposed to go. He’s startled into opening his eyes when he feels Justin’s hand on his cheek, thumb tracing his jaw. 

“Brian, I need to be with you,” he says. “Without itineraries, or crisis, or flights. Please, I just need to be with you for a while. Just us.”

Brian gets it. He gets what Justin is saying, because they haven’t been together without pressure for at least two years. And this wasn’t how things were supposed to go, Justin was supposed to be perfectly happy in New York, and Brian was supposed to let him go. Neither of them have ever done what they should. 

“Okay,” he says softly. He can’t say anything other than that, not to Justin, not ever. “We can go to West Virginia, I can take time off work.”

Justin gives Brian a slow, brilliant smile. Brian’s breath catches in his throat. Sunshine. 

“Wait.” Justin frowns. “West Virginia? Does that mean – you kept the house?”

Brian rolls his lips into his mouth and nods.

“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time? It must’ve cost a fortune to maintain it, Brian,” he admonishes.

“A fortune I’ve got,” Brian shrugs. “And it’s the country manor of your dreams.”

Justin huffs out a laugh, and pulls him in for a kiss. He tugs at the back of Brian’s head, his hands caressing and moving as if he’s holding something precious, as if he thought he’d lost it. The kiss is an absolution, and a new beginning, and a reminder. It’s everything, it’s home, it’s them. Brian can’t break away; he doesn’t want to, he won’t. 

He tugs Justin to the bedroom, and they fall on the bed, unable to stop touching. Brian undresses Justin slowly, kissing every bit of skin revealed. 

“Brian, Brian I need you,” Justin whimpers, one hand reaching to undo Brian’s pants, another hand shakily tugging Brian’s shirt off.

When Brian’s undressed, the feel of skin against skin is enough to make them both gasp, and Brian prepares Justin, puts on a condom. Then, at last, _at last_ , he’s inside, and they move together, finding the rhythm like they did that very first night, like they have every time since then. 

Afterwards, they lie wrapped in each other, tangled past “me” and “you”, tangled so there’s only an “us”.

“I love you, Brian,” Justin whispers. 

Brian raises his head to look at him, letting Justin see everything he feels, how it goes beyond words, how it goes beyond “Me, too”. Then, he buries his face in Justin’s neck, breathes him in.

+++

Things are never solved so easily. Justin needs to decide whether he’ll stay in New York, whether he’d rather paint in Pittsburgh. Brian needs to stop thinking he can make Justin’s choices. There are things to talk about, and fight about, and solve. But they’ll do that together, because they don’t want to be apart.

Every time they break, every time they’re so far gone there’s nothing else to do but implode, something reminds Justin. Something reminds Brian. They remember, yet again, that there is no better fit for Justin than Brian, and nobody for Brian other than Justin. It’s crazy and almost inexplicable, until you look a bit closer. Because they’re so monumentally fucked up, but they’re fucked up together. They’re selfish, and selfless, and there’s an edge that drives them and lives inside them that would kill anyone else, tear them open. But Brian and Justin, they ride on that edge, they live on it, they thrive on it. More than anything, their love is absolute in the sense that it’s fundamentally changed them, it breaks and makes them. It is the fire that consumes them, but they are the fire.


End file.
